draped over his back
the raven-black hair of the man sitting on the stair
behind the pubs and the clubs- the city on a June night.
and so, the carver who carves just that-
Intrigued, I kneel.
dark eyes smile.
cigarettes and chocolate,
we share this city-summer-breeze.
handing me the raven, he asks
Will you think of me when you see the Northern Lights?